good voice a few pretty songs, popular ballads, and paint an occasional
plaque, or even rise to the dignity of a panel, can surely make claim to
the free chromo distribution of that flattering term, "most highly
accomplished."

I was systematically advertised--by mamma--for about four years prior
to my _debut_. Every body was made to know that I was "growing up"
rapidly, "coming on," but still young, "oh, very young, and cares
absolutely nothing about men." Fact: cared more then than I do now.
Young fellows--available matches--would be invited out "very informally
indeed," to dinner or to tea, "would just drop in, you know," each
occasion skillfully planned by mamma. She is an excellent
manager--always manages to have her own way. On each one of these
occasions it was so arranged that they would catch a glimpse of
me--supposed to be entirely accidental. I was made to pose for the
occasion over my books or fancy-work. I was "so studious!" or "so
skillful with my needle!"--running comment by mamma during the
_accidental_ glimpse of her darling daughter. These things are
always effective, for mamma is really an artistic woman. Her social
villainy fascinates me into a constant state of acquiescence. There is
an irresistible glamour, there is a touch of his Satanic majesty which
gains me, against my will, body and soul. She is a bad, dangerous woman.
What an awful idea to have of my own mother! but, fortunately, other
people don't know her as we do--papa and I.

But after all the constant planning, the education with trimmings, the
high art dressing, the effective situations without number, in short,
the whole broad system of skillful social advertising, I am not the one
magnet-point; I am not the belle of the town. This has caused the breach
between us; and it grows wider every day. Mamma used to be unkind, but